


Drabbles

by WinterDreams



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lifeguards, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, It's a mishmash guys, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 08:23:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6416119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterDreams/pseuds/WinterDreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of prompts from my tumblr for the RvB gang</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tuckington (AU)

**Author's Note:**

> The way you said “I love you.” : Before we jump

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

Cold wind stung Tucker’s cheeks and he wrapped his arms tighter around his waist. The flimsy t-shirt and swimming trunks he wore offered little protection from the breeze, and the summer sun had yet to reappear from behind the puffy clouds floating above their heads. 

York’s laughter filled the air in response, and Tucker turned slightly to glare at the others gathered behind him. Wash offered him a smile, but the sympathy was ruined by the amusement dancing in his green eyes. 

“You’re the one who wanted to come on this road trip,” South reminded Tucker from where she stood by the van they’d parked on the grassy terrain a few feet away from the cliff’s edge. Her twin sat in the side doorway of the van, blanket wrapped around his shoulders and the white cast around his arm gleaming where it poked out from the blanket. 

“I didn’t realize you’d spend the entire time trying to get yourselves killed.”

“You’ll be fine, Tucker,” North spoke up. “This is a popular and safe place for recreational jumping.”

“And you have a bunch of lifeguards to save you if something goes wrong,” York piped up from where he sat with his legs dangling over the cliff’s edge. 

“Technically, none of us have our waterfront certification,” Wash pointed out. He stood only a foot away from Tucker, grey sweater pooled at his feet in preparation for the leap. 

“Way to be the opposite of reassuring,” York replied with a roll of his eyes, and a red stain slowly spread across Wash’s face.

“Given your track record of injuries, it wasn’t that reassuring of a statement in the first place,” Tucker said, letting the teasing notes slip into his voice mostly for Wash’s benefit. 

“Oh my god, I’m fucking done,” South snapped, moving away from the van with one last jab to her brother’s uninjured arm. 

York clutched the ground a little tighter at her approach, and Wash shifted imperceptibly closer to Tucker. The woman shook her head at all of them as she passed, making no move to push any of them but instead jerking to a halt right at the edge and curling her toes in the dirt with a deep inhale.

“Later, assholes,” she said, and she gave them one last middle finger before throwing herself into the air.

Tucker craned his head over the cliff and watched her plummet to the blue water below. Her head popped back up above the surface a few seconds after she collided with the liquid, the distance and wind tearing apart her shouted words before they could reach the ears of those who still stood on the cliff.

“I can go first if you want,” Wash offered quietly. Tucker glanced at his boyfriend as he took the few steps needed to stand right at Tucker’s side, arms brushing each other’s.

“Dude, if you leave me up here, there’s no way in hell I’m forcing myself down there,” Tucker snorted. “I’ll just join North in the van and eat all the Doritos before you guys get back up here.”

“I’d be fine with that,” North said with a smile. “Except South would kill you, and then me for being an accomplice.” 

“Yeah,” York agreed, “And then _I’d_ get killed because Wash would be all heart-broken about you being dead and Carolina would kill me for letting him be miserable.”

Wash stuck his tongue out at York and Tucker didn’t try to stop the laughter that spilled from his lips. The grin faded a little as he once more turned his attention back to the cliff and the long stretch of empty air that separated earth from water. 

“If I die, I just want you to know that I love you,” Tucker told Wash with as serious a tone as he could muster. 

Wash rolled his eyes at him even as his whole face softened with affection. Without waiting for a verbal response, Tucker twisted slightly to press his lips to Wash’s chapped and smiling ones. 

Then Tucker turned and jumped off the cliff’s edge, the warmth of the kiss staying with him for the entirety of the descent. 


	2. Yorkalina (Canon verse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m like 75% sure this won’t explode on us.”

“What are you doing?”

Both Wash and York turn at the sound of Carolina’s voice. She stands in the doorway of the mess hall with her arms over her chest, loose sweatpants and unbound hair speaking to the absurdly late hour. Wash shifts beside York, looking guilty despite the fact that technically they aren’t doing anything wrong.

“Wash wouldn’t leave me alone till I made him a late-night snack,” York offers, both to hear the rookie squawk his protest and see the amused smile tug at Carolina’s lips.

“ _York_ was the one who wanted a hot fudge sundae at three in the morning,” Wash protests, their voices echoing off the grey walls of the empty mess hall.

“Where are you getting the ingredients for it?” Carolina asks, taking one small step into the room. York catches the way her green eyes light up just the slightest at the mention of such a sugary food and York allows himself a massive grin.

“Smuggled it on after our last shore leave,” he says proudly, and both of the other Freelancers roll their eyes at him.

“You mean _Connie_ smuggled it on after the last shore leave,” Carolina corrects him, and Wash gives him a smug look.

“And she only lent you some because she felt bad that South accidentally destroyed half your clothing after you pranked her.”

“Okay, first of all, we all know South doesn’t do anything like that accidentally, we can all stop lying about it to each other at least. Second of all, I am insulted, nay, _hurt_ that you would imply Connie gave me anything out of pity and not because I fully deserved it. Third of all, that prank-that-shall-not-be-named was not-”

“While I love late night ramblings as much as everyone else on this ship,” Carolina interrupts, walking toward them with a relaxed posture. “None of that explains why the two of you were crowded around the microwave and poking it with your _gun_.”

“Oh,” Wash and York say at the same time, glancing back at the microwave and the gun in York’s hand. He instinctively moves the gun behind his back because having one in the mess hall _is_ technically something they aren’t supposed to do. Carolina just holds out her hand with a raised eyebrow and York gives her a rueful smile as he hands it over.

“We were trying to figure out if it was broken or not,” Wash offers.

“Broken?”

“South and North told me it was smoking earlier and nobody had fixed it yet,” Wash explains, which does nothing to erase the sardonic expression on Carolina’s face. She glances at York for the briefest of seconds, and she might be one of the biggest hardasses he knows, but in that fraction of a second he sees the absolute willingness to go along with whatever new prank this might be.

“There actually is a wire that looks kindof off,” York offers, as he crowds back around the microwave.

He points out the accused wire, though it’s not enough to convince him that the Dakota twins weren’t simply taking advantage of the rookie’s continued gullibility around them. York would find the situation utterly baffling if not for Wash’s proven ability to get revenge in the snarkies of ways, usually with Connie and Maine’s help, which only made the never-ending prank war on Mother of Invention all the more amusing.

Carolina finally comes to stand immediately beside them and they all give the wire a dubious look. York gazes longingly at the chocolate that’s waiting to be melted before making a decision.

“I’m like 75% sure this won’t explode on us,“ he offers, and that earns him two unimpressed looks.

“Do you just pull this shit out of thin air or is there actually some sort of hidden method to it?”

“Try not to wake everyone up when the other 25% happens,” Carolina tells them, and turns to go despite the promise of sugary goods.

“What, no goodbye kiss for the other 25%?” York teases, hoping the others can’t hear the spike of genuine desire that always thrums through him at the thought of kissing Carolina.

Maybe it’s the late hour pressing on all of their shoulders and loosening minds and bodies alike. Maybe its the absolute ridiculousness of the situation, making every second into an absurd dream that will bear no consequences in the reality of daylight. Maybe its the rarer occurrence of being out of their power armour, seeing the others in t-shirts and sweats and all their vulnerable, human glory.

Or maybe it’s because North was telling the truth when he told York in a gentle voice, both of them drunk out of their minds on a recent shoreleave, that Carolina has the same desire in her eyes that pours off every part of York when he looks at her.

Whatever the reason, Carolina smiles in response and steps into York’s personal space before he can blink. As quickly and efficiently as she takes down her enemies, she presses a kiss to York’s cheek. Then she’s moving away without another word, leaving the room as both Wash and York gape after her.

“Um,” Wash says, the first to break the silence. “What?”

“I change my mind,” York replies, whirling back around to the microwave with a grin that sparks panic in Wash’s wide eyes. “I’m a hundred percent sure this won’t explode on us.”


	3. Tuckington (Modern AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The way you said “I love you”: Over your shoulder

“Stop!”

The hail of bullets grinds to a halt mere seconds later and the silence is frightening after so much noisy fighting.

“What are you doing?” In the sudden quiet, Tucker’s hiss sounds like a scream.

“I go with you now and the civilian walks free,” Wash says, back pressing hard against the crates full of steel he and Tucker have been using for cover.

“No!”

Wash keeps his gaze firmly on the grey ground in front of him, near empty gun cradled in his lap. His arm stings from where a bullet clipped him before they found cover, but he swipes at the trickling blood without a wince as he waits for the answer.

“Agreed,” one of the men beyond their cover says. “The civilian is free to go so long as you both cease resisting.”

“Up yours, assholes,” Tucker snarls. 

Only then does Wash look over at him, across the small gap that separates the crates he’s using as cover and the ones Tucker hides behind. The handgun Wash lent him only has three bullets left, yet his whole body tenses in preparation for a continued fight. 

“Enough, Tucker,” Wash tells him, and Tucker’s gaze whips to him. 

There’s blood on Tucker’s forehead where one of the men managed to clip him before they made it to this room, and one arm curls protectively around his stomach. His dreads have all come loose of his hair tie, sweat beading along a strained face. Yet the hand holding the gun doesn’t shake, and the eyes that meet Wash are bright with a stubborn determination Wash has grown intimately familiar with over the past three months. 

“This wasn’t the fucking plan, Wash,” Tucker snaps at him, grip tightening on the gun.

“Plans change,” Wash responds, lacing steel through his voice and keeping his gaze steady. 

“You can’t fucking-”

“You have one minute,” the man calls, and Wash hears the tell-tale cocking of guns a hundred times better than the near empty ones he and Tucker hold. With each bullet fired, Wash had been going over as many different scenarios as he could where both of them walked out free, but in none of them could he finish off all of the men before one of them got to Tucker. 

“You know they don’t want you,” Wash reasons, words pouring from his mouth without time to edit or soften them. “They take me, they’re happy, and you walk out of this whole mess scot-free. And you _have_ to walk out of this, Tucker.” 

“We’re long past the stage where you think you can order me around for my own good,” Tucker says, anger twisting his face to hide the desperate plea.

“Think about Junior,” Wash says, because they don’t have time for anything but low-blows. “Do you really want to leave him like your dad left you?”

Tucker freezes and there’s a voice in Wash’s head screaming at him that he’s about to cause damage he won’t ever be able to fix but he can’t stop now. “You can’t do that to him, Tucker. He needs you. Alive and free and away from all this crap I dragged you into.”

“He needs you too,” Tucker whispers, and for a moment Wash can’t breathe through the memory of the bright smile the small boy with too many curls and a gap in his front teeth has been giving him every morning without asking anything in return. 

“He’s only known me a couple months,” Wash replies. “In another couple months, he’ll forget all about me. You both will.”

“Come out _now_.”

Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes for a brief moment, Wash slowly climbs to his feet with his hands raised above his head. He turns around to face the tense men, but not before he catches a glimpse of Tucker’s still form and vulnerable face. 

And oh, how it hurts to see the face that normally oozes with cockiness and lights up with affectionate grins crumpling before his very eyes from a pain he is causing and cannot stop. It hurts to realize each step away from Tucker is a step away from the lumpy couch and smelly apartment that had become a sphere of domestic security carved out of the shit show that is his life. 

The men grab at Wash as soon as he reaches them and jerk his arms behind his back before he can reconsider his decision. They pat him down for hidden weapons without a shred of his concern for his injuries while keeping all their weapons locked on him and ready to fire at a second’s notice. Wash can feel Tucker’s gaze trained on his back the whole time, and then the men start to shove him toward the door. 

Silence descends on them once more, one that causes more words to bubble in Wash’s throat. Words of defiance for these men who don’t give a shit about a strangers like Wash, and words of comfort for the one person Wash has ever met who took the time to care about a passed out stranger. 

Wash can’t apologize for anything that keeps Tucker safe, so he gives him the only truth he has left instead.

“I love you,” he tells Tucker over his shoulder right before the men lead him out of the room and a door slams shut between them.


	4. Grimmons (Modern AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The way you said “I love you.“ 15. Loud, so everyone can hear

“You’re getting crumbs everywhere!”

Grif looks up from his plate of food at the harsh sound of Simmons’ voice before glancing down at himself.

“Huh,” Grif says, dabbing at the icing that has fallen onto his black suit pants. He shrugs after three seconds and goes back to shovelling cake into his mouth while Simmons grits his teeth. That earns Simmons a sidewise glance a second later, and Grif speaks through a mouth full of food. “Calm down, Simmons. S'not like we’re the guests of honour or anything.”

“You calm down,” Simmons snaps back, and Grif rolls his eyes. He doesn’t reply verbally, attention returning to the wedding cake as Simmons leans back in his chair with a scowl.

They sit at one of the many tables lining the hardwood dance floor in the spacious banquet hall. Various other people chat at the tables draped with white and silvery finery while others spin across the wooden dance floor together. A constant crowd of people hovers by the open bar and Simmons glares at them and then his empty wine glass.

They have been at the wedding party for only an hour and Simmons already wants to flee back to his and Grif’s lumpy couch at their apartment and spend the rest of the night watching shitty movies. He keeps tugging at the tie strangling him and shoving up the sleeves of his black suit in a vain attempt to cool down. The sounds of other peoples’ voices grates at his ears and digs into his skull until there’s no room left for his own thoughts. He can see snide judgement in their gazes every time they look at another person, their laughter continually pricking at Simmons’ skin. Nothing makes him feel better; not the wine, not the food, not the classical music that ocassionally breaks through the modern pop playing, not even Grif’s loud presence.

“Is this seat taken?” An older woman Simmons doesn’t know asks, hovering at one of the five empty chairs at Grif and Simmons’ table.

“No,” Simmons replies, the woman sitting down before Simmons can even get the word out.

“All that dancing is _exhausting_ ,” the woman says with a slight laugh. “I’m getting too old to be on my feet all night like all you younger folks.”

“Yeah,” Simmons can only reply. His gaze snags on the groom, his cousin, and bride dancing amidst the smiling people. The only cousin and one of the few family members Simmons actually likes, and of course he has to go and get married and then invite Simmons and the entire town to his wedding.

“Are you two relations of the groom?” the woman asks, either not noticing or not caring about Simmons’ crossed arms and lack of eye contact. Her gaze rests on Grif for a brief moment, politeness fading slightly in a way that does nothing to ease Simmons’ irritation, before she looks back at Simmons with a friendly smile.

“Yeah,” Simmons says, “Cousins.”

The woman nods, and Simmons doesn’t even need to stutter over the lie he’s practiced about him and Grif simply being friends. So far nobody has even considered the possibility that they are actually dating, and those friends who know the truth and are also at the wedding stay quiet. Simmons can well imagine the headache that would come with the shocked and bigoted reactions they would receive, and he can’t deal with that at an already obnoxious social event.

“Oh how nice! I’m Susan’s cousin and-”

Simmons tunes her out and Grif glances over at her only once. Simmons goes back to looking over at the crowd, catching a glimpse of Sarge glaring at someone and Donut making friends with everyone in a five metre radius. Lopez has disappeared to god knows where, and Simmons wishes he could join him. Simmons doesn’t catch a single glimpse of his dad, but the two have been studiously avoiding each other all night.

Yet his physical absence does nothing to ease Simmons’ tension and the woman’s rambling grinds on Simmons’ brain. A headache that has been forming since the start of the night grows even stronger with her words and Simmons wants to scream at her. Wants to scream at all of them even though _he_ chose to come, _he_ chose to ask Grif to keep him company, and _he_ chose to lie about his life with Grif.

“Hey, watch my spot,” Grif says, and Simmons startles. He turns to see Grif already rising to his feet.

“Where are you going?” The harsh demand interrupts the woman’s chatter and Grif’s eyes widen at the ferocity.

“Uh, get another slice? Unless you want to finally change your mind and get one for me?”

“That’s your fifth one!”

Grif shrugs, wiping away the crumbs on his pants.

“I’m hungry.”

“You can’t just eat the whole wedding cake by yourself!”

“Relax, Simmons, there’s still plenty left. Nobody else is scrambling for it anyways.”

Simmons can see the woman looking at Grif with evident disgust, shaking her head as if his very presence offends her and Simmons hears all the blood rush to his head.

“Enough, Grif,” Simmons snaps.

“Are you seriously trying to control my eating?” Grif snorts, and his lack of seriousness makes Simmons’ face redden. “When has that ever worked?”

And there’s a small smile just barely showing on his face, and his body posture is the relaxed foil to Simmons’ tense position, and the words bring to mind a thousand different conversations that make Simmons want to roll his eyes and huff something light and teasing back at Grif.

But they are in public, surrounded by people that have spent Simmons’ entire life making him feel like every move he makes is the wrong one, and he suddenly forgets how to be even his abrasive brand of friendly or loving.

So instead of easing Simmons’ shoulders like Grif’s voice always does after a nightmare, instead of helping him lose himself in banter like Grif’s teasing always does when Simmons is stressed, the words simply burn like a challenge.

Like an accusation of every flaw and every failing Simmons has ever had.

“I’m _trying_ to keep you from acting like a fucking circus act.”

For a single second Simmons can see the words hanging in the air between them, as if he can simply reach out and take them back before they can inflict any permanent harm. But then they are hitting their mark, and Grif does a full-body flinch that Simmons has only seen twice in his life so far.

His heart clenches even more painfully in his chest than the first two times he saw it.

Grif stares at him for a moment, face slack before the anger and hurt hardens it. Their modes of apology are usually a lot more physical than befitting a public space where Simmons isn’t out; the clutching of a hand, limbs wrapping around the other’s body, a face pressed to a neck. Then come the necessary words, whispered against hair, pressed to skin, and breathed into the other’s mouth.

Simmons can do none of that here, and Grif doesn’t give him the chance to say anything more.

“If I was just gonna embarrass you the whole time, then why did you even invite me, Simmons?” Grif snaps, but doesn’t wait for an answer.

He whirls on his heel and stalks away from the table through the throngs of people. He keeps to the outskirts of the dance floor and he gets two steps before Simmons’ brain start functioning again. He jerks out of his seat and rushes after Grif. Grif has just passed the bar, Simmons five steps behind him, when Simmons’ mouth opens once more before he can give the words permission to leave.

“Because I love you!”

Grif and half of the room stops dead at Simmons’ shout. The chatter and laughter eases into a shocked silence around Simmons’, digging into his shoulders and making his face flush even more. But he keeps his gaze on his boyfriend, watching Grif’s tense shoulders before he slowly turns back around to face Simmons.

“What?” Grif asks, voice stunned but serious eyes locked onto Simmons’ expression. Simmons takes a deep breath and repeats the words he had not yet dared utter to Grif before this stupid, glorious party.

“I asked you to come because I love you,” Simmons says, and half of him wants to glare at the gaping partygoers who don’t make any attempt to subtely eavesdropping. He can’t look away from Grif, though, keeping his voice loud and steady as Grif’s mouth falls open a little. “And I thought it would make this whole thing a little more bearable.”

Grif stares at him for the longest three seconds of Simmons’ life, and then a grin slowly breaks across his face.

“I don’t think weddings are really our scene,” Grif says, “No matter how much kissassing you can do at them.”

“Home?” Simmons asks, and Grif holds out his hand to Simmons.

There are still people watching them, but Simmons crosses the empty space and slides his hand into Grif’s without any hesitation.


End file.
